This group aims to focus on uniting people and encouraging them to support each other through life. We will actively encourage members to share their stories and talk to each other to make new friends, we will discuss important issues that may affect our members and we will accept all artworks that deal with an emotional issue. This is not limited to mental health issues, and the group is open to anyone.
Our hearts are heavy burdens we shouldn't have to bear alone - Go Radio "Goodnight Moon"
Members Artwork Feature
Hey everyone! I'm glossolalias or Jorge. Welcome to BurdenedHearts! This is a weekly feature I'll be running, and usually, it'll showcase artwork relating to a weekly theme designated by one of the articles or editorials submitted by other team members! Due to the fact we don't have many submissions yet, this week I'm going to introduce all of team via their artwork and a little blurb because I am in a really good mood right now.
Chow MeinFor me the turning point
was standing in a Chinese takeaway
staring listlessly at the adverts
whilst my mother chose between Chow Meins.
The little card reading
"Industrial cleaning, including suicides"
I remember gulping back tears
when I looked at my mum and wondered
should I take the card for her?
First off, the talented and caring founder of this group, BloodshotInk. Spirited, down-to-earth, and very active in the community, it's hard not to love her. I'd suggest a peek through her gallery because it's impossible to showcase the magnitude of her work with such a small sample.
Urban Evisceration there is a thundering of one hundred buffalos-
the metro awakens
and stampedes across the pre-cast
terrains of my intestines
welders busy mending on one end
cutting on the other
surgeon handed precision and each moment costing another man's life
whether or not he may set food on his table
The Story StartsThe story starts in certain Hay (neighborhood) Al Fedaa, Babyl- Hilla, Iraq, in the 6th month of the year 1969. Here I start off as a fetus in my mother’s womb; just one of a quarter million other fetuses being bred for the second out of three waves of death popular to the people of Najaf, Hilla and Karbala. One million lives brought out before me were being prepared for their annihilation in the first death wave as I was being made after all, so what’s another quarter million surely?
Seriously though, my story begins in the much summery afternoons of early August of the year 1979. Ooh, what a year to start a story really, since it was also a year where many would have their stories come to an end. 1979 was the final year before the first death wave and the final year of Iraq’s glory days. The smell of Mohammedi roses and Arabian Jasmine simmering and cooling with the arid winds, and dried apricot sherbet served alongside freshly picked Jaffa oranges from our own gard
Sammur-amat! One of the sweetest people you'll ever have the pleasure of knowing. She's kind, funny, and on top of that, a very talented writer with a unique turn of phrase and a gorgeous gallery.
HaikuWriMo August 20131. Pond Water
against a shadowed sky;
autumn's koi leaves.
2. Autumn Settling
A spiderweb stretches
across shivering branches--
a tree's last scarf.
3. Forest's Canopy
On rusting leaves
the season's last ladybug
opens her wings.
4. Scarab Clouds
A flash of curve--
crowding out a harvest moon.
5. Hunkering Pines
Grandfather pines hunker,
bowing to winter
as fall's embers fade.
6. Etched Promises
Etched into gnarled trees:
to return again next year.
7. Dew Crystals
morning dew crystallized
on a shivering sunflower.
8. Blooming Flames
rusting at the edges.
9. Vulture Leaves
watches the leaves change.
10. Fog Breath
the mountains blurred
11. Leaf Musk
the heavy musk
of brittle leaf embers.
12. Morning Grazing
A pastel sunrise
I can't talk about betwixtthepages without mentioning how much I love to collaborate with this woman. She's not only an amazing writer but a creative thinker and quick on her feet. Her poetry is beautiful, her prose is stunningly realistic with sharp characterization, and she's friendly to boot!
Fruitless MomentsTHE FRUITLESS MOMENTS
The fruitless moments
searching my mind for
the Perfect words...
The ones that will somehow
convey to you the Magnitude
of this overwhelming Gratitude
constantly sweeping over me
For all the things you do for me
Because you Love me...
Realizing nearly everything has gone unmentioned
But never unrecognized...
Praying someday you can know the depth of
my most sincere Appreciation
and more than ever how deeply
I Love Only You~
I was introduced to scarletwave after I joined the team, and she hasn't failed to impress me. Not only is her poetry fluid and sweet, but her photography is just gorgeous.
The Cat's Been Playing With My ThoughtsThe Cat’s Been Playing With My Thoughts
Tumbleweeds roll down the dirt paths within my mind.
Each a tangled ball of thoughts, feelings, memories.
Past and present merge into a future that seems impossible,
And my effervescent dreams dissolve in the tears burning ruts into my heart.
So many paths to choose;
Each holding its own set of worries and woes,
Each containing some hidden hurt as a gift from life.
Which one to choose?
Do I really need to go forward?
I need to walk, but which way?
Darkness surrounds me as I walk in circles
Repeating past mistakes I should have learned from
And making new ones I should never have made.
All the while haunted by the memories
That chase me faster than I can run.
Tumbleweeds within my mind block out cohesive thought;
Past mingles with present, again,
And memories block the future with fear.
Which way to go?
What if it happens again?
What if it doesn’t work?
What if this path is wrong?
Holding on to your invitation into a relationship
I realise I will never see seahorses the same way again.
Pulsing at my throat the shell-horse reminds me of you,
And everything you mean to me.
But although this shell isn’t fragile, humans are.
Will there be a forever with you as you said,
Or will I be lonely for always?
Your eyes show love,
But your silence betrays your doubt.
I wish for grandchildren to show my seahorse to,
And tell them the story of how granddad used it to ask me out.
I want to hear them ‘eew’ and ‘gross’ when I kiss your cheek,
And see their gagging when we dance around the kitchen.
Your presence lingers with me like an ethereal being...
But is ethereal all I will ever have of you?
Your actions show love,
But your silence betrays your doubt.
As the day passes I think of you more and more
Until I absolutely have to check my phone...
...but there is no message
And I don’t want to intrude upon your soli
Another someone I have only recently become acquainted with, MagicalJoey is the epitome of honest writing. She doesn't skate around the the truth, and it's a quality that's easily admired.
TheGalleryOfEve is a superb visual artist and one of the most genuinely caring people you'll ever have the pleasure of talking to. She's very active around deviantART, so keep a look out for her!
TemponautSundays: no one's butterflies are
going to affect the wavelength
of the sun magnifying ants
(nothing will happen anyway).
Rewind, the air wrinkles into
sundays: no one's butterflies are
stuck on weeping quicklime (not yet)
that doesn't hesitate; floor it.
High-pitched tires are slashed by the
hissing water, parked sometime on
sundays: no one's butterflies are
run over by broken sunshine.
One last time to make this right, keep
blinking back - stop flapping its wings
'fore they reek like pelting rain from
sundays: no one's butterflies are...
ssensory may be young, but he's one of the most wildly talented writers I've come across on this site. His work is visceral, original, and poignant; definitely worth a watch!
the dandelion's songi am unwanted.
forgive me for my brevity
here, in your hands
(i was never meant
to be held).
though you are gentle with me
i know the sake
is for your own.
purse your lips
and wish on me with stale breath
(i know you've waited far too long
as i am caught
between your wish and a breeze
i will give a voice to my last refrain
and be reborn
with the hope from your eyes.
perhaps this was my purpose
for a moment i am wanted
(if only in my destruction)
and you have made me beautiful.
barrenthat was the day god decided
to take away my voice.
it was more painful
than the day they taught me how to speak
with my eyes
and shy, please don't look at me
lurched from my belly and into my throat.
this isn't mine
i thought, as my hands clutched the knot.
but my smoggy, starstruck head
told me to speak
and so i spoke
in disjointed lines and tiny text,
the more i said the bigger it became,
taking different shapes
and names -
but it was never mine.
and it still isn't.
When she isn't producing very raw and beautiful writing, Hfeather53 is a kind soul whose heart is just in the right place. She's one of my favorite people here and great for an understanding conversation.
SovereignSin is another person who I didn't meet until I agreed to be part of this team. He's such a talented writer, with an ability to capture the darker side of life without being kitschy or cliche. His gallery is more than worth the look.
it's no wonder i thought you were magicdeep within the bowels of the apparatus
a speck’s been digested:
my minuscule existence.
and my realm is small within it.
there’s barely enough real estate
in the halo
for my car
a kitchen and a stove
a bedroom window with a woman
and the floor
with her nightclothes.
they blink in and out and i can’t
all at once.
i string them along like a necklace
of invisible trinkets
and hope they last through the afternoon.
what in god’s lonely name do i really have?
it’s no wonder
why i puzzle the suburbs
of crumb palaces
looking for a piece to fit an ending
and make high ceilings
out of space
to hide the height of the universe.
the formula for amazement: a rare pollen from the surplus field
where horses haven’t grazed since April’s warm orgy
left a bindweed pink disease,
unrepenting against chainlink,
nights spent foraging for a spectre to grieve over,
to watch for while it elevates and descends
like a dumb waiter serving sunlight
to jealous little bastards, birthed and trailing in umbilicals,
sleepy, glass-eyed hydras
who never listen to anything,
uninvolved in my tiny drama,
the feeling of losing my treasured afflictions,
the mythos that fastens the concrete to dirt,
the wind to my spirit-skin,
is dulling the edges of the skyhead
against a mild amnesia,
blotting you out,
curing me of significance.
my fingers, swelling and unwieldy,
where they used to needle at micro-sentiments,
tips of finality that would whisper
for your gentle convulsions and dilations,
can only wallop the bulges
and smother at your face,
two vast halfwits that haven’t any mind
Picking two deviations from spoems's gallery was almost impossible because all of his work is amazing. He's one of the most talented writers I've ever known, with an intricate and rich inner-world that he choose to share through his poetry.
binge eatingi have a buildup
of black holes
suffocating my arteries,
having swallowed down
the bitter taste of too many
girls with galaxies traveling
the length of their spines.
i ate them in mouthfuls,
gaping & sad like a binge
reaching for the skies-
unable to hold them all in.
i don’t think the universe
is as vast
as it used to be,
of my ribs;
i am hungry.
& with a collection
of moon sighs
as a reminder
in my pockets,
i will just have to learn
how to calm this swollen
Milky Waymy body is a road map
of hazard signs
but on the days
when the mirror
is nice to me,
i can hear
like little racing
beneath my skin:
you are not worthless.
you are strong.
your ribcage has a meaning-
these bruises are
ste ti & you are the Milky Way.
DearPoetry is very well-known on dA and with good reason: she's got an impressive gallery, wrought with beautiful imagery and honest emotion. If you don't know her, then you definitely should.
The Mortal's DeathI swim within the seas unseen,
Fathoms you are not aware,
Yet danker depths exist in me,
Come dear one - I'll take you there.
Your human world cannot compare.
Come dear one, I'll lead you here,
A place no human's ever been,
No pain or heartbreak- never fear,
Shall pollute this place of dreams,
Where everything is as it seems.
Open, love and just believe,
In everything that you are shown,
All prejudices now released,
To be this world you've never known,
A space no one will ever own.
Gliding through the ocean's soul,
Living on the water's breath,
I know of secrets never told,
The secrets of the mortal's death,
The secrets of the mortal's death.
Even in her free verse work, kiwi-damnation has a stunning command of technique and form. She's one of the most technically skilled writers I have come across, and that does nothing to hamper the fluidity and raw beauty of her art. Her fractals are also gorgeous.
Summer is coming, you feel it in six-year-old bones sheltered beneath skin paled by flourescent lights and dusty shelves. She will call to you and attempt to lure you in with the promise of dry, dusty heat cooled by southern breezes; but you, so unlike your boisterous siblings, will dig in your heels and bury yourself deeper within tales with boundaries set in ink.
You will watch the seasons play out on your mother's face, placed there by the iron fists of your step father. Pink will turn to red, red to purple, purple to black, black to yellow and blue will hide beneath the surface; a kaleidoscope of colour that will turn your stomach.
Childish innocence will be stolen from you as you balance on knobbly knees to sweep up shattered glass, your fingers bloodied by the translucent shards and you will cry in bathrooms painted green, white and grey.
Your changeling eyes will age and your soul will ache until it resonates within your bones. A child already grown, you will t
Patricia, poet:she sucks the bellies out of
biros as though they are
marlboros burning her
fingerprints into patches
of your pale
introverted-ghost has a unique and recognizable style which has only improved since I began watching her. Every piece she writes has a little bit of herself, and she is an interesting, multilayered individual with a lot to say.
field notesi read some poetry
just for the sound--for the words lilting up and down
and the thick, honeysepia
polaroids unmisting in my head.
those are the poems i never understand
and the only conclusion i can draw is:
there is apparently
some supernova poetic awakening that comes
with the loss of virginity
and basically i need to get laid.
the happy mediait's a rabid world, sweetheart,
and the pedestal's not high enough until
you're breathing vertigo.
are not microscopes, for all they claim
to comprehend the chemistry
of your synapses, and the crowd
critiques your garters but hell--
why not some
intellectual upskirts, for once?
your darkest existentialisms.
When I found out how old disrhythmic is, I almost died from a combination of shock and jealousy. Silliness aside, she is already a talented writer and only has room to grow. She's also friendly, funny, and just a bit ridiculous, which is a wonderful combination.
Second star to the rightThere are days where she
forgets how to fly;
wings all tangled up in
"There is nothing wrong with me,"
"Nothing at all.
I just can't seem to
The clock strikes
she's nothing but
and withering pixie dust.
wild thingsthere are days i
want to run with wolves.
to howl at the stars because
the moon has never done
anything for me, and swallow roses
like their thorns never
but this cage -
it seems there's no way
and i fear it's
for anyone to hear me.
life is just a zoo full of
all our monsters, and
[it's our fault] we
Another writer who's had a fair bit of attention, lupus-astra has found a balance between descriptive language and emotion that makes her work so readable. Her ability to write relatable and accessible poetry, as well as prose, is simply stunning.
I Have HopeI have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. I have to remember to breathe every time those words come, I dont want to believe it. I still cant believe it. I remember the first time my counselor looked at me and told me that my depression and anxiety might be something more. Great, I thought, What could possibly be worse than this?
Firstly, PTSD is not a disorder that only affects our war heroes, though that is what its commonly associated with. My own first thoughts were: isnt that a disorder for war veterans or someone who witnessed war first-hand? The truth is there are many causes for Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, for example: witnessing or experiencing incidents, such as mugging, rape, child abuse, drug abuse, illnesses, car accidents, plane crashes, or natural disasters such as hurricanes or earthquakes can all trigger PTSD.
However, not every person who survives a traumatic event develops PTSD, as we all
Gondwana and LaurasiaI am Pangaea;
you are gravity and tectonics
(but not entirely the push and pull
of the force that assembled me).
You pulled me apart for all
the world to see and
all the scientists to marvel at.
I no longer resemble the beginning.
All you have to remember
me by is a hypothetical map
of a conjectural being.
You have pulled my limbs apart,
stretched me far across the ocean
so that I'll never be
quite the same.
I was an island.
I was Pangaea.
I am whole
and I am pieces that don't
quite match but still fit,
like sawed off arms of
You are whole.
I was the compass directing you
to my last-chance moment or
centre of landmass that I used to be.
You wished upon me the onslaught
of the Triassic period,
so I would be pliable.
I was a rubber band, bending
and expanding in the gritty palms
of your hands.
I crack into islands of thoughts
that really wouldnt exist,
without the jolt of life
you thrust into me.
Are you proud of what you've created?
Not only is HugQueen an active community member, but she has a huge heart, so much strength, and a lot of talent. She's an amazing person, and if you aren't familiar with her, you should definitely check out her gallery.
the gospel of two amreading collab with your-methamphetamine - http://sta.sh/0mk0ri4ja0a
I believed in unconditional love
until the conditions of the loved
built a wall to stop the flood of me.
maybe I did want you to drown
in something warm and good because
I am the blessed choking scarf:
a much needed reminder of
how sweet breathing is.
you realize something
in being the best person you can be
to someone and that is:
means being alone.
don't let anyone call you perfect--
simply a compliment tying the noose.
it is the seemingly flawless
who off themselves
they want to be
so they may be loved
and nothing is more broken
than the dead.
my chloroform love
is the reason you can't breathe.
I am the smotherer
working to unsmother you.
goodbye now, so you may breathe
and appreciate the ability to do so--
for the perfect are sacrificial lambs.
the silence in my swift departure sways.
we watch too much internet pornblank, online eyes
staring through each others
that mean everything
and say everything
at near imperceptible
he's a claustrophobic,
who whispers with rustled
to restful bradycardia
on secret wishes like
all i want
is for the land
to stretch like the
sands of time
under my feet
but most days
she is too busy listening
for the train rattling the tracks
where his mind races
the only train she's heard
was faint steel static
on a youtube video)
and her eyes are looking for
his eyes full of all kinds
of natural, youthful stars
she ain't seen before
(with strong, bright names like Orion--
not paparazzi-burned Angelina)
but it's all in their head
the walls they need to climb
to live and love and be
that power outages
are not quite the end
of the world
0hgravity is one of the most talented writers on this site, with an amazing gallery and a good hand for critique. Some technically flawless and beautiful work is waiting to be looked at, and this is only a tiny sample!
Honesty, poignancy, and a healthy handful of intrigue: what more can you ask for in a writer? A-Lovely-Anxiety picked the perfect handle because nothing better summarizes her work.
Clichés constantly riddle my mind,
And some of these phrases I utter most often.
‘Cause I hope these words hold true in life,
But my faith in clichés is beginning to diminish.
Oceanic SkiesOceanic Skies
Sea of clouds;
Ivory vapors above,
In pneumatic waves.
chromeantennae is one of the nicest and most supportive people you will ever meet. He's also a great writer with a lot of room to flourish into an amazing talent. He's mature beyond his years and definitely good for conversation, with realistic world views and enviable positivity.
on becoming alivethank god for sleeping pills
and the man who gave me a bag
to quiet my mind.
thank god for boys with open hands
and curious minds and naïve hearts
who make me young because
god, you birthed me old
you birthed me old,
so I could be the one to
measure the livelihood of stars
while the others made
their childhood wishes
thank god I have a mind
that runs a million miles faster
than I ever could, because
I believe my heart is an hourglass
of honey and grime, and
I’m slowly running out of
time, and I fear
these days are numbered.
thank god for people
who write the words bleeding in my heart
without knowing I exist, thank god
for beauty and my understanding
that I only exist in relation to it
and in appreciation of what
I can’t become.
thank god for my rebirth
because I spent all those
eye-opening years of my life
sleeping behind the wheel, thank god
someone was there to wake
me up. (thank god that I can
weep for happiness and depression
in the same day,
Actualitywhen I was young, I wanted
to be a punk rocker
metal holes lining my body like
trophies of war, hair teased
and bleached and styled for hours
on end until it looked effortless,
inked up with words and symbols
I swore were profound with
a cigarette hanging lazily
from my fingers, lonely
for a reason
(and he told me, sweetie,
you are like a fucking eclipse,
the bloody dawn
God plagued us with
I always wondered
if mistakes understood
the reason they
came to be in this world
I guess not).
Don't even get me started on intricately-ordinary. Not only is she kind, beautiful, and humble; her poetry speaks volumes more than I can possibly write about her. If you want to be blown away, take a peek through her gallery and make sure you have some free time, because you'll get sucked right in.
(Dis)abilityTo my aunt.
I couldn't smell aniseed for years after the day we baked those cookies. But it was you who taught me that a disability can be rather enriching. My sudden disability to handle aniseed smell was forever locked with that funny day. The cookies stunk so badly after aniseed my brothers ran out to the garden to gulp for fresh air. It made them feel sick. Hah, weak boys. (I didn't capitulate before I had eaten at least one cookie.)
I also remember that little neighbour-girl wanting to call you mum. Epilepsy had stripped anything artificial from your live, making you incredibly real, so present. You traded the car and the computer for the bicycle and real human contact instead.
I almost want to call your disability a blessing, as you often were so overflowing with joy (and a little mischief, too, sometimes).
But I can't. Because although making you an even richer, more powerful and wonderful person, it also took you away from us.
I never realized the small signs when
ist völlig zerhackt.
liegt es mir schwer
Story-of-a-Mind is a multilingual writer with a very dark and interesting gallery. Her work is both accessible and philosophical, which is difficult to come across. Unfortunately, I'm not nearly as familiar with her as some of the other members, but I can say that she seems to be open and understanding.
notebookXanthic hues of pale light settled across the sidewalk, thin blankets over shadows. The dim lighting fell over her legs, too; covered in black leggings, adhering to her curves, fading beneath the rim of her short, blue dress. Her arms were crossed and settled on a concrete veranda, and her eyes though present - present under the dim, poor lighting – were lightless; dark, and distant.
I knew her thoughts tumbled elsewhere, free from the confines of her physical presence; her spirit wandered, and in the absence of her attention her smile faded too.
She carried with her a cheap notebook – the type you buy for a buck at the dollar store, with a particularly girly design - and red ink pen. Inside you’d find scribbles of poetry, odd, random ramblings of a mad man – a poet engulfed in grief, spilling from her pen random notes without any concern for rhythm, or rhyme, or structure.
For writers, writing can be caustic. It can be suicidal, even; to purge the h
i pity your smileI saw you from a distance,
smiling a half smile only you knew
how to smile
and in that smile
I saw a hint of pity
seeds of regret watered
by your indecision,
a pity that those seedlings
sprouted, roots seething
into the corners of your mouth
and your eyes unseeing to the way
they twisted, and pulled on your lips
till a smile slipped into your expression;
a pity that smile only you could smile
was one of regret, remorse,
a pity your smile wasn’t a smile
at all, but instead a lopsided frown.
Last but not least, Konjuku has a style that's both photographic and surreal, utilizing imagery to convey stories that are personal yet show a greater understanding of human nature as a whole. Amazing stuff.
Aaaaand there's also me, but I'm not going to feature my own work Enjoy!